Coffee, Tea or Me? (30 page)

Naturally, we’ve told this story many times to many people. The telling and reactions we get have given us some insight into the whole Arab thing when it comes to sex.

A friend of ours who spent six years in Arabia with the Arabian-American Oil Company explains it this way. Arab men are all sexually unhappy, no matter how large their harem. Women of Saudi Arabia are not attractive by any stretch of the imagination. So, when an Arab has the chance to get out of the world’s biggest sandbox, he tries to cram as much action as possible into his sex life. It’s the same with booze. He can’t drink in his own country and consequently can’t get enough when he’s away. His sex life is actually so unsatisfactory that many Arab men prefer clean, fair-skinned boys to their own women, a problem facing every military and oil man assigned to Arabia.

Let’s face it. When the women of your country are held in the highest esteem for beauty and lovemaking, you’ve got a tough time trying to escape their long shadow. That’s the way it is with Scandinavian men. They approach you as if it’s the result of maximum and directed effort, and that’s a feeling that no woman has ever appreciated. Someday, when the eyes of the male world shift from the Nordic beauties to perhaps Yugoslavian or Congolese women, then Scandinavian men will have a chance. As it is now, they usually ask if you like to ski and if you answer in the affirmative, and you are a true ski nut, things might work out between you. It’s also true that Scandinavian men are quiet and seldom make passes. This makes identifying them for game purposes difficult. Generally, they’re blond, which is somewhere to start.

No matter how an Irishman tries to escape it, he’s bound to be heavy laden by the Cross. This makes giving a stewardess a line difficult because the Irishman, all his professed charm and wit notwithstanding, fumbles in his attempts as he looks over his shoulder for ghosts and spooks and the like. Still, despite the handicap, Irishmen try hard.

This talk of the heavy yoke of religion is not confined to the old-world Irishman. Even a member of the young, “God is dead” generation is tightly bound by ever-present fears of spending an eternity in Hell for one night with a stewardess. He usually will make the decision to act on his physical motivation, but he’s rarely able to shake the feeling that he’s being watched.

We know a West Coast stewardess who was quite serious about a young Irish accountant but finally gave up.

“That business of crossing yourself everytime gave me the creeps,” she confesses. “I kept getting the feeling he was praying for me to perform good. Like a baseball player.”

Actually, a stewardess probably would be happiest with a Unitarian. You have a clearer conscience when you know everything will be all right the next day if you find a little old lady to help across the street.

Never believe all that jazz about a Scotsman being cheap. We’ve found them to be free spenders, a finding that rates them high on our list of prospective companions. They’ll spend every cent they have in pursuit of a particular girl, usually with substantial results.

A Scot is moody, proud, unpredictable, and difficult to get along with in many instances, but once he’s interested enough to commit himself, you can do a pretty effective job of making things run your way.

We seldom have any trouble with Russian men. Our requirements are such that we must keep a reasonably trim figure. Russians can’t seem to see women except on the end of a plow, and it’s obvious we don’t have the necessary pulling power. Russian passengers usually just watch the movie or listen to Russian classics on stereo.

Miniaturization just doesn’t seem to have an advantage where sex is concerned. TV sets and radios, yes—but never sex.

Once the nationality of the men on our flight is established, we turn our attention, after serving drinks, dinner wine, and strawberry parfait, to an analysis of their field of work.

There are sure and certain tip-offs, of course. The style of his briefcase, a football helmet over the arm, a copy of
Method Acting
clutched to the breast, a uniform, a typewriter, a stethoscope, a storyboard, a picture of Earl Warren, or a button reading “Black Power”—all are clues to what the man does. When such obvious aids are evident, we take off three points.

We should also preface the next section by admitting that good or bad personal experiences with a certain man in a certain profession will tend to taint these comments slightly. The same holds true for the previous section on nationalities. You’ll just have to accept our opinions as presented and react in your own way.

Men engaged in this dubious profession are usually confused about their work. And it shows in their approach to us. After striking up an idle conversation about the altitude, weather, or ETA, they’ll tell you about their job as image builders, management consultants, marketing executives, or community relations experts. They never will admit to being flacks unless they function in the show-business area. If they are of the theatrical type, you can count on being told, “I can make you a star, baby.” And sometimes they can.

PR men rank high on our date list. They always dress nicely and have huge expense accounts. Those with gray hair have larger expense accounts than others. A typical opening from a PR man might start with, “Say, honey, I’ve got an idea you might be interested in. We’re opening a new bottle plant in Tempe, Arizona, and you’d make a perfect queen of the ceremony. You know, cut the ribbon and pose for the local press and that jazz. How about it?”

“Oh, are you a public relations man?”

“No, I’m a management consultant. I double in community relations.”

“Gee, would I get paid?”

“Hard to tell how much at this time, but I swing a lot of weight with JB . . . He’s chairman now. Good exposure for you. Never know about those things.”

If you’ve been flying long enough and have been involved in your own airline’s press activities, you’ll turn him down cold.

There is a surefire way to make
your
approach to a PR man if he looks interesting to you. One of our fellow stewardesses from Los Angeles always used this line:

“Well, that’s just wonderful that you’re in marketing and community relations. Doesn’t that involve trying to place stories in newspapers and on TV?”

“Yes. That’s just part of the overall team effort of the marketing management deck. We’ve all got to be pretty good writers, you know.”

Our friend would let enough time elapse and then throw in the clincher.

“Funny thing I should meet a marketing man. My brother is managing editor of the
Los Angeles Times.
I guess he’s the one who says what goes in the paper. I really don’t know too much about these things.”

He’s hooked. He’ll spend every dime he has wining and dining you, his motives double-edged. He figures he can either take you to bed, get a story in the
LA Times,
or maybe both.

It does help if your brother really
is
in a high capacity in the news media.

Gravely lacking any background, academic or practical, in the arts or humanities, engineers will try to make chitchat about the aircraft’s performance characteristics or outer space or why the ball always comes down after it goes up. It’s best to feign ignorance if you’re interested; engineers hate anyone to know anything about their sphere of knowledge.

Occasionally, an engineer will have the brains to realize that a stewardess isn’t interested in all that mechanical routine. This type of individual will say something like, “Have you read
Moby-Dick
lately?” You’ve got to give him credit for trying.

“No. I always wait for the paperback on these new best-sellers. The prices they get are ridiculous.”

Now that he’s impressed us with his deep love for literature, he springs the big question.

“How about
The Carpetbaggers?”
Oh, that leer, that twisted grin, and those raised eyebrows. “Pretty blue stuff, huh?”

Again, it depends on whether you want to continue the relationship. If you do, you come back with, “Well, times have changed and I think we all have a looser, more realistic view of these things. At least, I do.”

I personally can’t stand engineers. One actually took the dinner check in Cleveland and figured the markup of the food we ate with his slide rule right at the table. Rachel dated one who damned near gouged her chest out with a pocketful of pencils, pens, slide rule, ruler, pipe, and fingernail file.

But they make good, solid husbands, if you can stand a lifetime of excerpts from
Moby-Dick.

Actors usually try very hard to appear humble. They expect this unexpected humility to completely sweep a girl off her feet, or at least result in an autograph request or a quickie in the jump seat.

Actors will yawn frequently when they talk to you. They like to use vulgar, four-letter words in their speech, to show their non-comformity with us run-of-the-mill folk. They love to end their sentences, especially those containing many four-letter words, with an ever-so-slight lowering of the voice to indicate sophistication.

Actors are make-believe people. They usually ask you to meet them in some delightful female impersonation spot on
The Strip,
or a delicious little stretch of sandy beach where so and so film was photographed on location, or on a terrace in the Hollywood Hills where that darling old actress met with that absolutely dreadful fall.

Every stewardess accepts a date with an actor at least once in her flying career. It’s a necessity if you’re to go back home and answer all the questions about your newfound career of glamour and excitement.

My only intimate experience with an actor came on my eighteenth month with the airline. The girls on the flight presented me with a cupcake decorated with one and a half candles, right after we served the meal on a New York-Los Angeles trip. This little ceremony seemed to interest a fairly well known leading man who’d fallen asleep the minute he boarded the aircraft and slept all through dinner. I was naturally flattered when he called me over to his seat and wished me many years of happy flying.

“I think you ought to have a little more celebration than that cupcake,” he told me in a voice that was deep and familiar. “I’d like to provide it for you when we reach Los Angeles.”

I was tingling with excitement. I searched my mind for things I had read about this star’s marital status. I remembered he had recently married a starlet after divorcing wife number three or four. But that didn’t make one bit of difference with me. This was my big chance to go out with a movie star, a man who left millions of women drooling in their popcorn in theaters across the nation. His starlet would just have to do without him for one night.

“That sounds wonderful. I’d love to,” I told him.

“Fine. Here’s the address of an apartment in Beverly Hills. It belongs to a friend of mine. Come up as soon as you can and I’ll have the staff prepare dinner for us. I can’t stand all that nightclub rat race in Hollywood. I’ll even get our own live music. After all, a girl doesn’t survive a year and a half in these damn airplanes every day, does she?”

“She sure doesn’t,” I said breathlessly. “I’ll be there.”

I was the talk of the galley all the rest of the trip. And I was sworn to make a full detailed report the next morning.

I watched him leave the airport, carefully noting whether his newest wife was on hand to greet him. The only person I could see was a Chinese driver in a black uniform.

After I rushed through my postflight routine, I took a cab to the address he had given me. It was hardly to be called an apartment, at least not by my standards. It was a large house set back behind an even larger house. The long driveway was dark and I made my way carefully along exquisite shrubbery that formed a clean-cut silhouette in the moonlight.

I went to ring the bell, but the door opened before my finger reached the button. It was the same Chinese man who’d picked up the movie star—
my
movie star. (I think I’ll call him Robert for the rest of the story.)

The chauffeur-butler led me up a long stairway to a massive room that spanned the entire length of the house. It was simply gorgeous. I sank ankle-deep into the white carpet. My host came across the room to join me, his hands outstretched, his eyes indicating pleasure in seeing me. I felt silly in my wrinkled uniform and cursed myself for not having changed before coming. I had a dress in my bag downstairs and wanted desperately to run down and get it.

“You look simply beautiful, my dear,” he said as he took my hands.

“You’re very sweet, but I have a dress in my bag downstairs and I think I ought to change.”

“By all means, if that’s what you’d like to do. But why a dress? Why not be comfortable?”